


Paying the price for nothing

by alexanger



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Indulgent sadness, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:43:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7553641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the lights go down, where will I run to?<br/>When the lights go down, where will I hide?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paying the price for nothing

_ August 26 _

 

_ Dear Alex: _

_ My dear, dearest, my love, you fucking nerd,  _

_ It's been raining here. A welcome change from the heat, but you'd hate it. It's torrential. It's like someone upturned a lake directly over base. I can't remember the last time I wished for sun but here we are. I haven't had dry socks for a couple of days. My feet are the worst thing I've ever smelled, and that's saying something, considering what I'm doing here. _

 

Alexander walks into a bar on his first day in New York City and immediately considers leaving. Not just the bar, no - he considers leaving the city altogether.

There’s a wiry, freckled man holding what appears to be a disgruntled giant by the front of the shirt with one hand and punching said giant with the other. The bartender seems completely unperturbed - maybe even amused, Alex realizes as his brain catches up to his eyes. 

“Admit it,” the freckled man is saying.

“Nah,” says the giant casually.

“Admit it, dude, and I’ll stop punching you.”

“Were you punching me? I didn’t notice, bro -”

Another punch connects with the giant’s face, and then both men are on the floor grappling, and a third man is cheering for both of them simultaneously.

Alexander can’t help himself. He jumps into the fight, hauling the freckled man off the giant, and earns himself a glancing punch in the process. Immediately both brawlers stop, and the freckled man says, with a note of panic in his voice, “shit, man, are you okay? Did I hurt you? Where did I get you?”

“My arm, it’s fine, didn’t hurt, what is going  _ on? _ ” Alex asks.

“Nothing - dude, let me buy you a beer, are you sure you’re okay?”

Alex is thoroughly confused. “Am I okay? What about  _ him? _ Why were you beating him up?”

The freckled man grins. “Cause Herc wouldn’t admit he smells like cinnamon buns -”

“I do  _ not, _ fuck you, John,” Herc responds. “I smell like a goddamn garden, all flowery and shit, and it’s amazing, and you clearly know nothing.”

John squints. “Talk shit, get hit.”

“I think he smells like lilacs,” Alexander says, thoroughly bewildered by the turn of events.

The third man bounces a little. “This guy,” he says, “this guy -  _ gets  _ it. Herc does smell like lilacs, it’s true, c’est vrai, and you know nothing, John Laurens.”

John laughs, and the sound is full and throaty. “Shit, I can’t argue with three of you.”

“Not with that attitude,” Alex tells him.

“You were right, Lafayette. This guy  _ gets  _ it,” John says. “Okay, I’m buying you a beer, and you’re giving me your number. And also your name, because you didn’t tell me and I’m terrible at guessing. And also I’m going to take you out to dinner when I’m a little more sober.”

“I’m Alexander. Did you, uh, did you just ask me out?”

John grins. “That depends on if you’re going to say yes.”

Alex is surprised to feel genuine laughter bubbling up from inside of him. “Well, shit - yeah, okay. Yeah,” he says. “Yeah.”

 

_ Honestly, the rain makes me think of you and I can't get you out of my head. So I know I don't usually get sappy or sentimental (and yes, Alexander, I know you'll laugh reading that, but I'm not nearly as big of a romantic as you are, it's all relative) but I find myself talking to you while I'm on watch. Is that weird? I know I'm not really talking to you, and the conversations are a lot shorter and less antagonistic than they would be if you were really here, but it makes me feel less alone.  _

 

For their first date, John takes Alex on a walking tour of his favourite places in the city, and within ten minutes of saying hello, they’re arguing.

“Listen,” John says. “Like, everyone  _ says  _ live theatre is timeless, but I just really don’t get the appeal. It’s imperfect and you have to sit in a room with a whole bunch of assholes you don’t know, and hear them making mouth noises and clapping and fidgeting and whatever while you’re just trying to enjoy, I dunno,  _ Curious George Fucks Everything Up Again: The Musical, _ and you could just wait for the damn thing to be made into a movie.”

“The imperfection is the  _ point. _ You see a play live because you know the actors are human, and if they fuck up, that adds to the magic,” Alex says.

“Dude, I don’t wanna pay hundreds of dollars to see Bland Tenor #1 forget his lines -”

“Who the fuck pays hundreds of dollars?  _ You’re _ the one who grew up here, and I got here last week, and you don’t know this shit? What about ticket lotteries? What about off-off-Broadway? What about neo-futurism? There is a show we can go see in two hours that will cost  _ maximum  _ $38 for the both of us. And I guarantee you, you’re gonna appreciate that way more than a fucking movie of Les Mis or whatever the fuck you’d rather see. Like, shit, let’s watch street buskers. Let’s watch a high school play. Theatre is way more than those big ass shows on Broadway that have waiting lists six months long, and we’re gonna see a sick show for under fifty bucks, and when I prove that I’m right, you’re gonna kiss me and it’s going to be magical.”

John scoffs. “Sure, whatever, dude, but I promise you can’t find me any half decent show that’ll cost under fifty bucks for both of us. It’s gonna suck ass.”

 

When the two of them walk out of the theatre, John is fiercely gripping three brand-new t-shirts and very clearly holding back from talking about the show.

“So,” Alex says smugly. “I was right.”

John stops, grabs the front of Alexander’s jacket, pushes him against the brick front of the theatre, and kisses him hard. Alex feels himself melting; the lips pressed against his are hungry and fierce and insatiable. It almost feels like drowning; he wonders idly if there’s any danger in just letting go and letting the waves carry him away.

And then John stops kissing him. His curls bounce as he tosses his head and says, “I never admit that anyone else is right.”

“That sucks, dude, cause I was very clearly right -”

John kisses him again, and Alex wonders how long this formula will work - goad John, receive kisses.

 

(It will never stop working.)

 

_ I miss you so much. I think what I miss most is the luxury of just being able to hang out. Like, I miss everything else too. I miss kissing you, and God, do I miss the sex. But what I want most is just to take a nap with you laying in the grass somewhere. Maybe near the ocean. I just want to hold you and doze off without having to worry about bullets or bombs.  _

 

Alex teaches John about the city from a poor man’s point of view. He points out how little it costs to bring a picnic to the park and watch the people, or to sneak into a lecture at one of the big universities. There’s always something new to do - library dates, walking tours, strolling down Canal street to laugh at the tourists, finding the best cheap bars to spend happy hour at, wandering into Saks to find the single most expensive item in the store and speculate about what they’d do with that money instead.

(John politely refrains from ever mentioning that that is money he does, in fact, have; Alex manages not to resent him for the comfortable life he lives.)

On one park picnic date, John idly says, “you know, I thought of a way to do New York even cheaper.”

“Yeah?” Alex asks him. He’s sitting between John’s legs and leaning back against his chest, and John’s fingers are combing through his hair.

“Well, imagine the money you’d save if you moved in with me.”

Alex turns slowly and scans John’s face for any hint of a joke, but there’s no sign of laughter there. “That’s not funny,” he says anyway.

“Shit, I thought you’d at least laugh.”

“So it was a joke -”

“What? No, dude,” John tells him. “Move in with me. Dead serious.”

“You’re so impulsive, John -”

“And you aren’t? Listen,” John says. “Your place sucks.”

“Wow -”

“I know it’s, like, physically impossible for you to stop talking longer than thirty seconds, but please try, for me, my darling dearest asshole. Anyway, your place sucks, I hate sleeping there. My place is awesome, you love sleeping there. Sleep there every night. Plus we can get a dog or something. Or a kid, or two, or three. Or get married. But mostly, right now, just move in with me.”

Alex is overwhelmed. “What?” he asks, certain he’s misheard - well, all of that.

“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this.”

“Do what -”

“Say please,” John says. “But, you know, please. Please move in with me.”

Alex laughs then, and he’s struck by how absolutely ridiculous this is - they haven’t even been together six months, and he knows he’s rushing into it, but he opens his mouth and what comes out is, “yes, okay, yeah, I’ll move in with you.”

“Cool,” John says casually.

“Cool,” Alex echoes.

He gives notice on his apartment and gets rid of most of his furniture by putting it up on Craigslist for free; that also just so happens to be the place he acquired it in the first place. He doesn’t bother to stay out the month. That first night, laden with a single suitcase of clothes and a Kindle, he settles into John’s apartment like he’d belonged there from the beginning.

That, he informs John the next morning, is the first night in probably ten years that he sleeps a full eight hours.

 

_ Alex, when it rains like this, I think about how it used to terrify you. You sent me that one song once, that one by those Texan kids you like, and it's kinda my soundtrack when it rains now. Mostly just this one part: When the lights go down in the middle of the night, where will I run to? When the lights go down in the middle of the night, where will I hide? I always think of you waking me up on stormy nights and clinging to me. I don’t know why you thought that would help. I couldn’t make the rain stop. But you’d hold on to me and we’d wait it out together, and if we were lucky, you’d doze off and we’d get a couple hours of sleep. You’d hide with me and we’d be exhausted the next day, both of us, but it would be worth it to know you felt safe with me. _

 

The first time Alex endures a storm in the new apartment, he struggles not to let John know what’s going on. The rain hits mid-afternoon; the two of them are curled up in overstuffed chairs in the living room, sharing craft beer and reading.

“Shit,” John says, hardly looking up from his book. “It was nice like, an hour ago, and now listen to that. Sounds like it’s gonna break the window.”

“Uh-huh,” Alex says, as casually as he can.

“Well, we needed that. Let’s hope it blows over soon.”

“Yeah.”

“You weren’t here, but there was this beast of a hurricane a couple years ago,” John says. Alex feels his heart explode into overdrive.

“Oh,” he says, struggling to keep his breathing calm.

“Yeah, there was some flooding in Manhattan, and it was fucked up. Subway backed up, power down, it was fucking wild.”

“Oh,” Alex says.

“Yeah -” John looks up, and stops dead. “Alex,” he says, “what’s going on?”

Alex can feel himself shaking and he struggles to draw enough air into his lungs. He raises his hands in something close to a shrug and tries to laugh, and then he’s sobbing, curling into himself against the sound of the rain.

Before he realizes what’s going on John is sitting on the arm of the chair and wrapping around him, holding him ferociously. “Breathe, baby,” he says.

“I can’t,” Alex chokes.

“Yes, you can. You hear me breathing? Focus on that. Listen to me breathe. Match me, Alex.”

John’s palms lay flat against him, one on his chest, one on his back. He breathes against the hand on his chest, short, rapid breaths that slow as he focuses on the sound of John’s breathing, his heart, the rumble of his voice in his chest as he whispers, “good, Alex, you’re doing so good for me, just keep doing that, just like that.”

He keeps doing that, just like that, and the rain outside is slowing, suddenly, and he can breathe. Alex collapses against John, sweaty and exhausted.

“Sorry,” he says when he remembers to speak, what might be five minutes or five years later.

“Sorry for what?” John asks.

“For freaking out.”

“Shit, I’m so bummed that I got a chance to hold you.”

“I’m serious, John. I’m sorry, I know it’s a hassle.”

John tips Alexander’s chin up. “Never apologize to me for that. The only time you need to be sorry is if you go tough guy on me and try to push through that shit alone, okay?”

Alexander doesn’t speak. His tongue is too heavy in his mouth.

“We’re a team,” John says insistently.

“Yeah,” Alex says.

“I love you,” John says, and Alexander suddenly realizes - it’s absurd, but it’s the first time John has ever said that.

“I love you too,” he says, and the words click into place like they were there the whole time, and someone just needed to say them.

 

_ August here is absolutely fucking bananas. Listen. I know you think New York is hot in the summer, but you have absolutely no idea what hot is. We have one fan for our entire barracks, and I would sell my left nut for ten minutes in a freezer. (I don’t need that nut anymore anyways now that we have Philip, so it’s a fair trade I think.) _

 

The thunder isn’t the worst part. The worst part is the pounding of rain against the window, now that he’s at home without John’s warmth.

Eliza stirs in the bed next to him, awake enough to know it’s raining. “Need anything?” she asks blearily.

“Hold me,” Alexander begs, and she wraps around him. She’s no patch on John; she’s smaller, her limbs are shorter, and her chest isn’t as broad, but at least it’s something. Alex might be imagining it, but he’s convinced that it rains more when John is away on a tour. He thanks whatever put Eliza in his life -  _ their  _ lives, he corrects himself, his and John’s, they’re still a pair - before John enlisted.

John enlisting was a nightmare,  _ is  _ a nightmare, that refuses to end. They’d only had Eliza in their lives a year when John came home one day and explained that he was joining the army, and Alex couldn't understand. Maybe he just refused to understand. No matter what he did, no matter what he said, John couldn’t be convinced to stay; and on the day he left, Alex felt a part of him close up.

That closure is a raw, open wound now. The summer rain thunders against the window, ceaseless, endless, and Alex shudders in Eliza’s embrace. He loves her - he loves her so deeply that it sometimes hurts - but she isn’t John, and that rude strength, that willingness to stay awake for hours and just hold him, is what he needs now. Eliza is soft edges and gentleness and Alex wants anger and stubbornness. He wants the man who would challenge the rain to a fist fight; he wants the man who would fuck him through the mattress until the pounding of his heart drowns out the pounding of the rain.

He can forget John’s absence for minutes at a time, but not when it rains like this.

_ Come home, _ he screams soundlessly.

It doesn’t matter how much he begs. John still isn’t there.

 

_ I think about you and Eliza and Philip every day. Please send me tons more pictures of him, I don’t care if you think they’re all the same. I love seeing him. Shit, everyone here is probably sick of me by now, because every time you send me pictures I make everyone look at them and I don’t stop talking about him for days. How’s his crawling? Is he standing yet? Do you tell him about me? He’s going to be so big when this tour ends. I can’t wait to meet him. I hope my tour ends before his first birthday. I don’t do much praying anymore but it’s almost worth praying that I’ll make it home by then. _

 

Eliza announces that she’s expecting the day before John leaves for another tour.

“Stay,” Eliza asks him.

“Please,” Alex adds, desperate, fierce.

“No,” John tells them, but his voice is soft, hesitant. Maybe he regrets the decision.

 

He leaves anyway.

 

Philip comes a week early. Eliza holds him tight against her, more fire in her than Alex has ever seen before, and he takes endless photos of them.

_He has your eyes,_ he types to John in the email. _Come home. Come meet our son._ _  
__I want to, but I can’t. Please don’t ask me anymore, Alex._

So Alex doesn’t ask anymore.

 

At first he sends John pictures every day. The flood slows to once a week; then once every two weeks; and then, if he remembers, once a month. Alexander’s excuse is that they’re all the same. Really, he’s just exhausted - he’s tired of sending pictures to a parent who isn’t there. He’s had enough of absent fathers.

_ You had every chance to stay and you didn’t, _ he doesn’t send in his emails.

_ You let what happened to me happen to our son, _ he doesn’t add.

_ I will never forgive you for this, _ he doesn’t have to say. He knows John knows. There’s a pull; they’re moving apart, shifting away from each other, tectonic plates drifting past each other, and each email is another earthquake. There’s resentment that Alex never voices; he lets it fester. Better to let it go unsaid than to give John new worries while he’s off fighting a war.

There’s plenty of time to tell him everything when he comes back.

 

_ When I come home, I want to go to the park near our apartment and just sit there in the grass and watch Philip explore. I think it would be heaven just to lay in the shade with my family. Maybe I’ll draw him. I haven’t been doing much art lately. Not much to draw. I tried to sketch you the other day, but I couldn’t get your eyebrows right. I need to see you again before I forget what your face looks like. _

 

After the funeral, the honour guard presents the flag to Alex.

He’s struck by two absurd impulses. The first is to toss the flag to the ground; the other is to put it on like a hat.

The words ring in his head - honorable and faithful service. Your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.

Faithful to who? Alex looks at the eight-month-old child John left behind. He looks at Eliza, who cries openly, unashamedly. He looks at Hercules, who walks like he’s aged forty years overnight; at Lafayette, whose smile has finally disappeared, for the first time since Alexander met him.

He accepts the flag.

On the way home, he stops the car by an alley. Eliza asks what he’s doing as he turns the engine off.

“Give me a second,” he says.

He takes the flag from the back where it rests beside Philip’s car seat. Eliza doesn’t ask him why. He walks into the alley, shoves the lid of a dumpster open a couple inches, and pushes the flag in.

He wipes his hands on his pants, gets back in the car, and drives home.

 

_ I can’t wait to come home, Alexander. I can’t wait to see you again. _

_ All my love always, _

_ your John _

 

**Author's Note:**

> [all my life, i've been running, running, running,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7lcYmNNv6lA)


End file.
